The Morning Ritual
by PinkTeaCup
Summary: What goes through Professor Snape's mind in the dead of night?


THE MORNING RITUAL

He woke up from the nightmare as he always did: sweat beading in his lank black hair, blankets tossed and twisted off the bed, a single tear welling in the corner of his unfathomable eyes. It was always the same dream: he is standing frozen, horrified as a torrent of green light engulfs the slender girl. She crumples to the ground in a pitiable heap, the little boy at her side looking up with innocent green eyes. A second flash of green light and the child wails with the pain of a deep cut in his forehead. The cut is curious: it is shaped like a lightening bolt. He is drawn closer and closer to that cut as though some great compelling truth is hidden there. The eerie sound of a high cold pitiless laugh forces him awake, gasping for air.

He lies perfectly still in the dark, willing his heart to stop racing. He almost succeeds until he remembers the way the dream girl's long dark red hair was splayed on the floor, her green eyes barely visible under her half closed lids. For a brief moment he considers a simple sleeping potion, then discards the idea as a sign of weakness. He roughly pushes himself out of the bed and on to his feet. Although it is still dark, his day has begun.

As he showers, first with scalding hot then icy cold water, his eyes barely glance at the unusual mark on his arm. He frowns unconsciously. The mark reminds him of everything that was evil and loathsome in his former life, everything he repudiated. He shuts down those memories and wills himself to think of more mundane things. He almost smiles as he recalls the look on Lockhart's face when he shouted _"Expelliarmus!" _

As he dries himself, he thinks of the day's Potions class. As unquestionably bright as Hermione is, it irritates him immeasurably that the others are sitting back and letting her do all their thinking, especially in these dangerous times when every skill learned is a potential weapon. He sighs as he wonders for the thousandth time what disaster Neville will unleash today, and what counter-magic he will need to contain it. And as they do every morning, his thoughts inevitably focus on the boy with the curiously shaped scar. The boy for whom he has such mixed feelings. The Boy Who Lived. _Her_ son.

He dresses by the light of a single candle. A crease appears between his eyes as he concentrates on buttoning the sides of his trousers. He recalls the more innocent times in his life when he dressed in traditional wizard style. He remembers those days when he didn't wear head-to-toe black, before The Incident. He feels his heart begin to race again as he recalls the worst moment in his teenaged life. He remembers the irrational, intense mixture of humiliation, hatred and rage that forced those unforgivable words out of his mouth and the look of shock and pain on her face. That was the moment when everything changed for him: those kind green eyes no longer looked his way, that soft voice no longer sought him out for conversations. He thinks of the weeks that followed when he longed with all his heart for the light touch of her hand on his shoulder. He remembers dying inside like a plant deprived of water and sunshine.

As he buttons his long tunic his thoughts fall again on his despair, the sense of hopelessness that lead him to seek companionship in other circles, circles that welcomed his brilliance. He shut down his emotions in those days, hardening his heart against the misgivings that frequently surfaced. He had companions and a leader who welcomed him. At last he was accepted for himself. His hand stops at the top button of his tunic as he thinks again about the misgivings he ignored and the horrific sights he witnessed. He recalls the day when he had awoken as though from a bad dream and fled to the one person on earth who held out hope, spilling his heart and soul, pain and rage, and receiving forgiveness, friendship and a newfound purpose.

Like a soldier preparing for battle, he buttons the final buttons in the long row on his tunic sleeve. He puts on his long black robe, surveys his appearance in his mirror, smiles ironically at his dour image and blows out the candle. He thinks of all the students and faculty lying peacefully and innocently asleep. It is time to keep evil at bay for a few more hours in his little oasis of peace . It is time to patrol the Hogwarts halls.


End file.
